


Waiting For You To Come Back

by Silvera



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Depression, Eventual Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, MIGHT BE TRIGGERING, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-19
Updated: 2018-09-02
Packaged: 2019-03-06 22:52:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 9,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13421313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silvera/pseuds/Silvera
Summary: After Sherlock's suicide John struggles to cope, he turns to unhealthy mechanisms. Deeply buried emotions finally surface in Sherlock's absence. If only he had said something to him while he had been there. Maybe he'll get the chance.ORA different way the reunion of Johnlock occurred with a different ending. Focuses on John mainly at first.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, this work is sort of long and I don't now how often I'll post and it mainly focuses on John but just hang on through it. I hope you enjoy it and thank you for reading. Please drop in a comment if you would like and I'll definitely respond.

London’s sky was grey and miserable through the window of 221b Baker Street where John Watson sat slumped in his armchair staring through the glass panes. The heating in the apartment was off and the chill of winter had seeped into the lifeless building. In the silence John could hear Mrs. Hudson bustling about downstairs, ever so often coming to the foot of the stairs and hesitating before turning back around. That had become almost a routine by now. She always came to check up on John in the mornings and evenings. That was routine. In the first few days she would come up more often, sometimes even spending the whole day with John. As the days progressed and John became no more responsive she began to distance herself more, leaving him to his own thoughts and allowing him to brood in solitude. John felt grateful and guilty, after all she had lost him too. John was never fully sure of the relationship between Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock but they had been close and he could tell that she grieved too.

 

John’s mug of tea had long gone cold though he still held it cradled loosely in his hands since Mrs. Hudson had handed it to him a few hours ago. Holding his hands out to take the tea was probably the only movement he had made all day. For hours he had just sat in his chair in a trance-like state, just staring at Sherlock’s violin resting on his stand. It lay there so innocently, it hadn’t been packed away properly, just left there for the next time Sherlock would pick it up. Images of Sherlock’s long, slender fingers dragging the bow across he strings to draw out beautifully melancholic music. Ghosts of the notes echoed through the silent apartment and just for a second John imagined he was back, just standing there facing the window, his eyes closed serenely as he drew the bow back and forth.

 

A vibration from John’s pocket disrupted his thoughts, dragging his mind back to reality and leaving him alone in the empty room once more. Sighing, he leaned forward to put his untouched tea on the coffee table. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his battered and scratched phone.

_Are you alright? I haven’t seen you in a while?_

-Mary

 

Mary. She was right, John hadn’t seen her in a while. She fussed over him at first, insisting he stayed at hers instead of being alone. John had thought of staying with her, he had, really, but overall what he wanted was to just be alone with his thoughts. There were other messages on his phone that he hadn’t bothered to check. Some were from Lestrade, one from Harry, even one from Mycroft. Most of them were much of the same. Messages of condolences, asking if he was alright, a few from Lestrade were offers for them to grab a pint somewhere.

 

John groaned and dragged a hand down his face, he needed to move. His eyes were gritty and he felt the annoying prickle of stubble covering his jaw. With a great deal of effort, he managed to heave himself out of his chair, which he had begun to sink into, and shuffled his way to the bathroom. Upon turning on the lights he immediately regretted it. The harsh, white lighting made him squint as he turned to the mirror.

 

His face was gaunt and haggard. Bags and dark rings hung from under his eyes and his skin was gaunt and pale. His dirty blonde hair was exactly that as it lay limply, plastered to his clearly defined skull. John’s usual collection of baggy clothes hid the shape of his body but the way they seemed dented inward showed that he had lost weight. Not sleeping, not eating, staying inside all day. Textbook signs of depression. John scoffed.

 

“Pull yourself together Watson, you’re a soldier. He wouldn’t want this for you.” John muttered to his reflection. _Like he cared what you wanted_ , a snide voice in the back of John’s head remarked, _if he cared what you wanted he would still be here. If you were good enough he would still be here_. John flinched, they were his own words but the hatred that accompanied them always hurt him, the truth that accompanied them. Because it was true and ever since Sherlock had died that little voice had been there, taking every opportunity to mention how John was never smart enough to keep up with him, never on his level, always in the way just generally not good enough. John had tried to ignore it at first but there was truth in every word it said so John just absorbed it now, letting it play on repeat in his mind. Mentally shaking himself John decided to take a shower in attempts to appear to be a functioning human being. His beige jumper stubbornly stuck to his skin, reminding him just how long it had been since he had showered or changed clothes. Once undressed he stepped into the tub, turning on the shower and angling it away from him until the water heated to a comfortable temperature. Stepping under the spray John felt his tense and aching muscles relax. The hot water felt like it was washing off the past few days, the steam clearing John’s head. Tears slipped unbidden from his eyes, mingling indistinguishably with the water. Soon his silent tears turned into great, body-wracking sobs that tore from his throat. John poured the strain and stress and sadness of the past few days into his tears, leaning against the cold tiled wall for support.

 

When the sobs had finally subsided to small, pathetic whimpering noises and then to nothing, John went about his usual shower routine. After reluctantly turning off the shower, John moved back over to the bathroom mirror. Wiping off the condensation, he grabbed a razor and a fresh razor head from the bathroom cabinet. As John brought the razor head up to attach it to the handle he hesitated as his eye caught the shining metal blades. He dismissed the idea almost as quickly as it appeared, the voice in the back of his head oddly deciding to remain quiet at the seemingly innocent gesture. Although he tried to push the thought back into the furthest reaches of his mind that didn’t stop him from being more acutely aware of the blades as he dragged them over his skin. Just as he was finishing the last stroke the razor nicked his jaw. He was aware that he reacted much slower than usual. Foregoing his usual curse, he just stood, staring transfixed in the mirror as a tiny rivulet of blood made its way down his throat. The innocent crimson droplet brought back flashes of images of masses of blood matted into curly black hair and running over ivory skin. John physically flinched at the image and looked away, wiping the blood quickly with his thumb. Ambling out of the bathroom and to his room, John picked out some fresh clothes from his wardrobe and dressed quickly. Already he was beginning to look like a functioning human being again.

 

Walking out of his room, John surveyed the apartment. It was a mess. There were heaps of scientific equipment and scribbled notes cluttering the kitchen table, some spilling onto the floor. Dirty dishes were piled in the sink and old takeout boxes spilled from the overflowing bin in the corner. Books had been left strewn around the living room floor and there were crumpled piles of laundry, whether clean or dirty it was impossible to tell, dominating the sofa. John heaved a sigh. Organised chaos. That’s what he started calling it after having lived with Sherlock for a while and always nagging him to clean up after himself. Sherlock had always refused on the grounds that he knew where everything was like that. Eventually John had come to grasp some method in his madness and let it be. The scene looked so painfully normal, much like the violin, only waiting for Sherlock to come back to finish whatever he had been doing. The idea of cleaning it all up briefly flitted across John’s mind. John shook his head. He couldn’t bring himself to do it. Not yet. He too was just there, waiting for Sherlock to come back. Instead John decided to go out.

 

He pulled his phone from his pocket, eyes scanning over his messages. His first reaction was to go to Mary and take comfort in her warm embrace but at the moment the thought of her worry and coddling didn’t appeal much to him. The next choice was Lestrade. He and Greg had become friends over their mutual link from Sherlock. John trusted him and regarded him as a close friend but the John felt a similar reluctance to be surrounded by his worry and grief. That only left Mycroft. Usually John was sceptical at best about the older Holmes but at the moment his usually irritating lack of emotion seemed welcoming. John pondered how best to word his message to the usually detached man before settling on:

_I’m sorry about your brother, thank you for texting to check up on me. Do you want to meet?_

-John

 

The text received and almost immediate response:

_Thank you, I am sorry too. It is good to hear from you; I will send a car to pick you up now._

-Mycroft

 

The slightest hint of a smile nudged at John’s lips over the absurdity of anyone using a semi-colon in a text. It was barely a minute before the usual black car pulled up outside and John was driven in silence to a surprisingly modest looking house. By modest he means by Mycroft standards of course. The house stood alone on its own piece of land, unlike the rows of semi-detached or terraced houses that lined the usual streets of London. It was reasonably big and painted a rich creamy colour with black beams making a simplistic but pleasing pattern. It was surrounded by lush, neatly trimmed grass and systematically placed flowers. As the car drew up through the open black iron gate and up the paved driveway to a large empty space near the front of the house. When the car pulled to a stop John didn’t hesitate in stepping out, not bothering to turn when the car immediately drove off. John walked up to the impressive looking oak door, banging the iron ring knocker. The door opens after a minute and John was surprised to see Mycroft standing there instead of an elderly austere-looking butler.

 

John was momentarily surprised to see that Mycroft wasn’t dressed in his usual selection of crisp, clean suits was instead standing there in a plain white Henley and light brow khaki trousers. Although he still gave off an air of professionalism from his not-entirely-casual clothes John was still surprised at how unguarded he seemed. At first John didn’t know exactly what to say. Despite the fact that they had formed an unspoken connection through their shared care for Sherlock they had never been particularly close. John found something strangely comforting about the older Holmes’ presence and realised that he didn’t want to end their contact because they no longer had a common interest.

 

“Thank you, for meeting up with me and I’m sorry again about Sh-your brother,” John said lamely after a moment’s hesitation. Mycroft just nodded, equally lost for words and turned and walked into the house, leaving John to follow.

 

Shutting the door behind him, John followed after Mycroft through the impeccably clean and organised hallways. They ended up in a reasonably sized living room with a large flat-screen on one side of the room directly facing a long, black leather sofa and two armchairs on either side with a small coffee table sat in the middle of the semi-circle of furniture. John hesitated rather awkwardly on the edge of the room while Mycroft just plopped rather tiredly down onto the sofa. Noticing John’s hesitation Mycroft made a feeble attempt at a smile, that held none of its usual pretentiousness, and said, “please, have a seat.”

 

As he made his way further into the room John felt less uneasy and more concerned. Usually John felt no great deal of love for the other Holmes sibling but he did respect him and he had, on more than one occasion, noted his genuine concern and care for his baby brother. Mycroft usually always exuded an air of confidence and untouchability, seemingly always turning his nose up at everything. However, right now, sitting on his expensive sofa that seemed to dwarf his size in ordinary people’s clothes he looked so…small and vulnerable. It made John’s heart break just a little and made him regret all those times that he had only ever thought of Mycroft as an emotionless businessman. Being able to have a closer look at him, John could now see the greyish tinge his skin had taken on as well as the bags under his red-rimmed eyes. His voice was hoarse when he spoke instead of posh and clear like it usually was. That’s when it hit John, truly hit him. As much as he had offered his condolences and realised the fact before he had never actually understood. This man, no matter how he usually acted, had just lost a brother. A younger brother. His family. John couldn’t even comprehend how he would feel if he lost Harry. Especially if he had it in his head that Harry was someone that was his responsibility to protect. Sadness curled in the bottom of John’s gut for the man in front of him and he sat near him on the sofa instead of on one of the armchairs.

 

“How are you faring?” John asked, feeling a spike of genuine worry for the man. Mycroft turned to him with a sad look.

 

“Fine, I suppose,” his voice was fragile but John could tell he was trying to push more strength into it. John gave him a sympathetic look, eyes urging him to say more.

 

“I suppose I just don’t know what to do now,” his voice cracked slightly on the last words and without thinking, John launched forward and drew the man into a hug. It was awkward at first, both, stiff-backed but John’s arms were firm and gripping him tightly. The hug exceeded the acceptable amount of time but John still clung on even at Mycroft’s half-hearted attempt to move back. After a few more seconds passed by John felt Mycroft relax completely, crumpling into John. His face tucked into the crook of John’s neck and John could feel the tell-tale wetness of tears pressing into his skin. Moving one of his arms so that he could rub one calloused hand up and down the others back, he folded Mycroft more comfortably into him as all the pent-up tears tore from him.

 

They remained like that for a minute or two more, until Mycroft was all cried out and his slender frame shook with the effects of weariness and grief. All the while John just calmly stroked his spine, shushing and cooing the fully-grown man as one would an upset child. John didn’t even notice some tears of his own had slipped down his cheeks. When Mycroft pushed back more firmly, John let him go. They both wiped the tears from their faces, John watching the other man intently as he studiously avoided eye-contact.

 

“I’m sorry I- “he began.

 

“Mycroft stop, don’t apologise. It’s fine. Do you feel any better?” John interrupted. Mycroft looked up, surprised at the sincerity in the ex-army-doctor’s voice. The two men sat in silence for a little while, both uncertain of what just happened and what happens next.

 

“I miss him too.” Even John was surprised to hear his voice break the silence. Mycroft started and turned his attention to John from where he had been staring blankly at a wall. His expression was sad and surprised. He stared at John so intensely for a second that John was almost certain that he was staring into his soul.

 

“He’s peculiar like that, my brother. He acts so closed off to everyone. Never letting anyone get too close. But at the same time, without you even noticing, he gets close. So close that he crawls under your skin and you feel at loss when he's gone.” Mycroft’s expression was reminiscent as he said it, dreamy almost. John understood what he meant though. Living with Sherlock had definitely not been easy but by living with him he had developed a bond with the man that he couldn't quite explain. With Sherlock gone now John felt an incomprehensible loss. As if a part of him were missing. A part that he had given to Sherlock and a part that he had taken when he left.

 

“I know what you mean,” John replied, putting a genuine effort into the smile he offered at the older Holmes. John remained at Mycroft’s home for hours. They shared stories, not only of Sherlock but of their life experiences, it was the first time in a long time that John had spoken to anyone of his days in the army. It was the first time in a long time that John had spoken so deeply to anyone at all. When they ran out of words they simply sat in a comfortable silence, each lost in their own thoughts until something in their internal monologue would resurface another memory that they chose to share. Talking with Mycroft, while it didn't lift the sadness that John felt, it eased the isolation that had been suffocating John since Sherlock’s death.

 

At some point during the night, well it was now a lot closer to morning than night, Mycroft suggested that John just stay there and return to Baker Street in the morning to save himself the trouble. Although John pondered it he eventually insisted he return. John would have liked to stay, he actually wanted to since after today he felt much closer to the once imposing and detached man, however he didn't think he was quite ready to break his habit of sleeping in Sherlock’s bed just yet. Although after endless nights, and sometimes days, of John laying there the smell of Sherlock had dwindled, the overall organised messiness of the room was overtly Sherlock and it set John at ease.

 

Both men stood in the doorway, almost reluctant to part. John hugged Mycroft again, short but packed with meaning before he clambered back into the car that drove him there. As the car drove John through the winding streets of London and back to Baker Street, John felt a mix of light-heartedness that was being dragged down heavy sadness. _Today was a good day, he thought, I’m glad me and Mycroft have found a common ground._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you are enjoying this. Shorter chapter I know. Not all will be as long as the first.

John didn’t know what time it was. It must be some time in the early morning. His eyes were dry and aching from being open so long. He had been lost in his own thoughts again. The idea of getting up didn’t seem very appealing to him but his body felt heavy and disgusting in the way it sometimes does after an unsatisfactory night of sleep. Slowly, he dragged himself out of Sherlock’s bed, straightening the sheets to the exact same position they were in before he had started sleeping there before trudging to his room for some clothes and his towel.

John stood fully under the spray of the shower, not caring that the water was turned up hot enough to burn, turning his shoulders and back red with the heat. He tried to avoid looking down at himself. John was quite a modest man but he had always been quite well built with clearly defined muscles from his days in the army. However, in recent times he hasn’t managed to keep to his usual routine of eating and exercise and he often found himself disgusted by his shrunken body and gaunt features. At some point John had actually gone around the flat and covered all the mirrors. If Ms. Hudson had noticed she had chosen not to comment. When John had finally gathered the will to move, he shut off the water, only hesitating a second longer, before clambering out of the tub and wrapping a towel loosely around his waist. 

It was only 5:30 am by the time John was dressed and sat back in his usual armchair. He knew that he should find a job and soon. Even though John didn’t really spend money on food or clothes or anything really, without Sherlock his funds were drying up and he was only just able to pay rent at the moment. A part of his mind was quick to remind him that even if he did run out of money the rent probably wouldn’t be a problem thanks to some of Mycroft’s very discreet payments. John briefly wondered if those payments were already being made.

Today. Today he would look for a job. Not wanting to be able to convince himself otherwise, he grabbed his coat and headed out immediately.

Although there was still traffic clogging the roads and weary-faced people trudging down the streets, avoiding all unnecessary human contact that they could, London was fairly quiet in the early morning. The sun didn’t appear even close to rising but the usual wall of grey clouds gave London enough light but made everything seem oddly muted. John didn’t feel like he was himself. He felt distanced from everything. All thoughts left his head. He left his head. All there was were images cut from random memories. Some of Sherlock bent over some crime scene or other, some of Harry piss drunk and crashed on John’s sofa, some of his and Mycroft’s conversation the other day and then one that would keep recurring, coming back after almost each picture. It was a view over some of London. It was quite high up, he could see the tops of buildings and the easily distinguishable red buses slotted into the traffic on the grey roads that separated the blocks of concrete buildings. It looked like the view from a rooftop.

John was so lost in his thought, trying desperately to remember where that must be from that he didn’t realised he had been wondering for hours. He had made it so far that he was actually stood on Blackfriars Bridge. The cold air nipped at his exposed face as he leaned on the edge of the, surprisingly empty, iconic bridge.

John peered at the sluggishly moving brown water of the Thames and remembered being told when this bridge was seen by many as a place for the suicidal hundreds of years ago. From how he was leaned mostly over the railing the sudden image of him just pushing further forward suddenly flashed in his mind. He wished he could say that the thought startled him into jumping back but he simply rested there, making no move forward of back. After a few more moments of completive thinking he finally stepped back from the ledge and began the long walk back to Baker Street. That was enough for today. He would begin the job hunt tomorrow.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Really sorry for the long break. Also sorry that this is mainly a filler chapter. The next one will be good though I promise.

John had gotten a job eventually at a small surgery not too far from the apartment, Mrs. Hudson was pleased and had given him a tight hug and made him a cup of tea. He had begun to talk to her more, but he still remained rather inside of himself most of the time. She had seemed to accept it. Almost every day he would just leave to go to the surgery in the morning and come straight back to the apartment after his shift had ended. He spoke with Mycroft often, almost daily at this point. Occasionally they would meet, mainly just John going to Mycroft’s house and staying a while before returning to the apartment. They had become closer, but John still refused to stay overnight. Eventually Mycroft had started wearing his sharp, crisp suits and John had returned to the habit of showering and changing clothes daily.

 

At some point John had given up completely on Mary. Even went as far as to delete her number from his phone. Although he wasn’t entirely sure, he thinks that he had managed to drop Lestrade a message telling him he was fine and had found a new job. John didn’t mind his new job. It was what he always reckoned he would do once he had returned from the army. Come back to England and get a cosy job as a doctor. It didn’t give him the same satisfaction as it once did, it gave him nowhere near as much as working with Sherlock had. But it was a job. And John needed a job.

 

Everyone around him seemed relieved at his return to reality. They felt like they needed to check up on him less and so John was still allowed his own time of isolation when he got tired of the world for the day. John seemed better, he really did, but he really wasn’t. Most of the time John felt this harsh overwhelming guilt. Guilt for not noticing what Sherlock was going to do. Guilt for not stopping Sherlock. Guilt for not telling Sherlock everything he had ought to when he had the chance. Guilt for daring to move on without Sherlock. Some days John felt ‘normal’ but John didn’t really understand what normal was. He couldn’t remember the last time he referred to anything in his life as normal. Ever since he met Sherlock everything had become so far from normal and that was ‘normal’ to John. But now, without Sherlock to constantly drag John into horrifyingly mysterious situations John was just meant to be an ordinary person again. And he had forgotten how. Sometimes, more than sometimes, John wondered why he bothered. Why he tried to force himself into a mould that he doesn’t even know the shape of. Why he pretended that he could ever move on when Sherlock became such a part of his life, such a part of him, that he lost a part of himself with Sherlock. Why he bothered to live when he didn’t want to anymore.

 

Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft, Lestrade, they had all moved on, properly. They coped with losing Sherlock. They understood how to continue with their lives. John just couldn’t. He wondered if they would be able to do it again. Wondered how long it would take them to move on from John. Although he wasn’t sure entirely when it was, John knew that there was a point where he had stopped bothering to scold himself for thinking like this. There was a point when this became all he thought about. Sometimes he told himself that he would be missed. That it would be a mistake. Sometimes he even believed it.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I actually went back to watch the scene as I wrote this. Definitely a triggering chapter so please be careful when reading if self harm is a trigger for you.

_“Goodbye John.”_

_“Nope.” John shook his head, pressing the phone to his ear as he stared up at the roof. “Don’t-” His words failed him. What was he meant to say? What could he say? Shifting from foot to foot. He stared in dumbfounded horror as Sherlock hung up the phone, dropping his hands to his side and dropping it carelessly behind him._

_John wretched the phone from his ear, “SHERLOCK!”_

_In one quick movement Sherlock pulled his slender arms up and for a spilt second, he looked as if he were an angel. Or he looked as if he were crucified. The moment ended as quickly as it had come, and John just stared, paralysed, as he tipped over, almost as if by mistake, and fell._

_“Sher- “, his tongue felt like lead in his mouth. John felt unable to move or think or speak, he could only stand rooted to the spot as he watched as his best friend plummeted, his long limbs flailing as he went, only for him to be lost to John’s eyes behind the bulk of the building in front._

John surged forward. His stomach lurched and twisted and the tears running down his face intermingled with the sweat. The darkness of the room cloaked him; although, he could make out his surroundings well-enough from pure muscle memory. The feel of Sherlock’s thin bed sheets twisted and warped around John, covered in his sweat and bunched up where John had thrashed around were like manacles. Loud sobs tore themselves from John’s throat. The force of the cries was almost overwhelming, John keeled over as his abdomen clenched and his muscles tensed to accommodate the gut-wrenching wails. Eyes, blurred with tears and body shaking like a leaf clinging to a branch amidst a storm, John tore himself from the bed, feeling as if it was constraining him. He stumbled onto the floor, guilt clawing up his throat and releasing itself in whimpers and whines.

“I’m sorry Sherlock, I’m so sorry, so, so, sorry. Sherlock. Sherlock, please, why? I’m sorry.” John’s words punctuated each rushed-out, shaking breath as he cried. Curled into ball on the floor John was assaulted by everything at once. He needed to get it out. Had to get it out. Everything was tearing through his insides and overtaking him, destroying him.

Although his head spun, and his vision went black when he struggled into a standing position he still managed to rush to the bathroom within seconds. He slammed his shaking fist into the light switch, squinting against the sudden blinding light that tinged tiled walls into a dirty lime-green colour. The blade was exactly where he had left it. At this point he didn’t bother with hiding it. At this point he may as well carry it with him in his pocket.

John wrenched off the jumper he wore and threw it carelessly in the bathtub. The wall-mounted mirror was just about long enough to show down to John’s pelvis. His ribs were starkly obvious through his drawn skin and his stomach was shrunken and caved-in. Haphazard lines of red and brown and pink criss-crossed around his hips, the highest one, a long, curved crimson streak reaching just below his ribs.

With a shaking hand, he gripped the naked razor blade, nicking his thumb in the process, not that he noticed. He started fresh, finding one unmarred piece of flesh just above his waistline and drawing the thin edge of the blade across his skin with sudden steady precision. For a moment he just watched as a smooth red line appeared, and blood beaded up on its surface before growing and sliding down to stain his sweatpants. But the pressure within his head didn’t subside. It didn’t even lessen. So again, he pulled the blade across. Then again. Then, finding on older, faded cut he traced it and reopened it, wider than he had intended to but it didn’t matter.

It wasn’t working.

His only escape. The one thing that had been getting him by. What he had been using to release his anger and sadness and frustration. His grief and despair and numbness. And it wasn’t working. Tears welled behind his eyes, blurring his vision and falling in fat, warm droplets onto his unsteady arms braced against the sink. He couldn’t breathe. He needed to breathe. He didn’t want to breathe. He didn’t want to breathe.

He didn’t want to breathe.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're getting there. I promise.

John grabbed his jumper from the bathtub and pulled it on over his head. The blood from his sides stuck to the jumper and pulled the rough fabric of it against his irritated cuts. Dropping the razor in the sink he stumbled out of the bathroom, not bothering with the light. Quickly, his eyes scanned the dark apartment for the vague outline of a pair of shoes. He spotted some laying on the floor by the door and stumbled over to them. Supporting himself with an arm against the wall, he shoved his feet into the trainers, the backs of the shoes folding uncomfortably under his heels. Ignoring it John unlatched the door, swinging it open. From the corner of his eyes he saw his keys, his hand half-way to them before he hesitated. Does he need them? Is he coming back?

Just for the sake of choice he pocketed them and stepped out before he could think any more about it. As quietly as he could he descended the stairs, aware of Mrs. Hudson sleeping in her room.

When the cold London air hit his face, he felt sobered almost instantly. The hysteria from the remnants of the memory began to fade into nothing, taking all else with it. Suddenly and instantly he felt drained and numb. His legs began to carry him, leaving his mind behind to catch up. Although only half-present he knew where he was going. He understood what he needed to do. So, he let his body drive while he retreated into his mind. Going through his life frame by frame.

He remembered the day he met Sherlock. The amazement and awe he had felt after seeing his mind at work for the first time. The excitement and bravery he felt as he and Sherlock had run together, and he realised his limp was gone. His fierce protective pride when he had saved Sherlock.

He remembered a number of their cases. Of Sherlock’s grotesque and disturbing science experiments where John would open the fridge to be greeted by an arm or leg. He also remembered the quiet domestic moments with Sherlock. Of his slender, long fingers skimming the strings of his violin as he played, almost as if he were petting it. Of how intently he would feel Sherlock staring at him sometimes when he though John wasn’t looking, or when he knew he was. Of how intensely John would stare at him when he thought Sherlock wasn’t looking.

Before he knew it, he was there. The bridge that he had leaned over all those weeks ago. The steady rushing of the black water beneath calmed John. The moon glinting off the surface made it look infinitely deeper and darker, like a void, beckoning to him.

John leaned over the edge once more. Pushing himself up until somehow he was balancing perfectly on the stone side, towering over the beautiful blackness.

“I love you Sherlock,” he whispered, putting one foot forward as if he were walking, “and I’m sorry.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In process of next chapter which holds the long awaited reunion.

It had been days since he had returned. Sherlock had waited so long to see John again, but he felt hesitant about revealing his presence. John had seemed so content when Sherlock had arrived; he had a new job at a small surgery and was seemingly living a contented and mundane life. The fleeting idea that John was better off without him was quickly dismissed. Whether it was because Sherlock was simply too selfish to let John go or he was certain that they were better as a duo, Sherlock wasn’t sure. For some reason Sherlock was just content to sit and watch his partner from a distance for a while longer. There was something odd niggling at the back of Sherlock’s mind, it was something similar to the way he felt when confronting a suspect, just a sense that something was off about them.

The first day was uneventful. He had kept a reasonable distance, tailing John in only crowded areas where it was easy to be missed. When John had gone into work Sherlock hadn’t risked following him into the building, instead he decided to meander about through the streets of London, linking up with old sources and useful contacts he may need for the future. By the time John was due to have finished work Sherlock was already waiting a fair distance away from the building.

The second day had confused Sherlock. John went about the exact same routine and Sherlock had decided to be a bit more daring. He followed more closely behind John, trailing behind him on half empty streets. Sherlock was certain that John knew better. The army doctor had always seemed hyper-aware of his surroundings, even more so after meeting and working with Sherlock for so long. So, for the doctor to seem almost as if he were ignoring Sherlock’s existence. That’s not to say that he was. Sherlock had noticed the differences in John.

His clothes hung off him as if they didn’t fit and his shoulders slumped along with his bowed head, making him look defeated. He seemed to march with a wearied sort of exhaustion that coloured the air around him. John’s already white skin seemed so pale it was almost translucent, and he no longer appeared to be the social butterfly he always was, his interactions with others seemed purposefully limited. Sherlock could see the pain he was hiding under his well-constructed mask of normality. 

Sherlock’s throat constricted at the thought that he was responsible. For some while unbidden emotions had been tormenting Sherlock, John’s absence from his side only emphasising the strength of these unspoken desires. Sherlock knew how John felt, he always did. The way that John adhered to his side, remained with him when others wouldn’t. John loved Sherlock, of that he was sure. Sherlock loved John, of that he was certain. 

Soon, he said to himself, soon I will go back to him.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took a while but my exams are almost done so I thought now was a good time to write. Bit of a longer chapter as an apology for the wait.

It had been a few more days and Sherlock had finally decided to return to his beloved friend. During the day John had seemed occupied, his thoughts even further than they usually were. Sherlock dared not bother him while he was working and so had waited. Once John had left work Sherlock stuck close behind him, determined to catch up and proclaim his presence. Once more hesitancy struck him, and he let the opportunity slip past him as John entered 221b and Sherlock continued down the road.

 

Pinpricks of light broke up the black ocean of the night sky, Sherlock stood in his black trench coat across from 221b Baker Street. He wasn’t sure what time it was, but he had taken reassurance in previous nights in just standing and watching, as if he were the protector of the flat. Sudden movement shook Sherlock from the daze he had been in as he watched John leave the flat and stride off into the streets of London with more determination in his step than Sherlock had seen since he had returned. Waiting a few seconds, Sherlock took after him at a leisurely pace, his long strides keeping just far enough away to be inconspicuous.

 

After what felt like thirty minutes of steady walking John stopped at a bridge. Sherlock continued to advance, taking advantage of the dark night covering him as well as John’s captivation with the water, drawing his attention from his surroundings. Looking around the deserted street, Sherlock wondered why exactly John had come here in the middle of the night. Confused, Sherlock returned his attention to John, who was leaning precariously over the edge of the bridge. Sherlock took an involuntary step forward, his protective instincts overpowering his cognitive abilities.

 

Sherlock stood stunned as John swiftly hoisted himself up to stand on the wall of the bridge.

 

“I love you Sherlock. And I’m sorry.”

 

Without even thinking he was there. An arm wrapped around John’s middle holding him in place as he tried to step forward. Sherlock brought both arms up around John’s middle, his head was pressed into the curve of John’s spine, simply clutching onto him to keep him in place. The second Sherlock had touched John a jolt had gone through the former army doctor, he turned static and stood stock still.

 

“John,” Sherlock whispered. Another jolt.

_Sherlock? That was Sherlock’s voice._ John lifted his head from where he was staring straight ahead to the black sky before falling back to the black water. _He’s calling me to him._

With a renewed passion John tried again to walk forward. Sherlock tightened his grasp as John struggled against him, unconsciously making shushing noises as if John were a frightened animal. As a surge of strength went through John in another effort to pull away which led to him almost tipping over the edge, Sherlock acted. With all the strength he could muster, Sherlock pulled himself back, causing John to drop back off the ledge. Still entrapped in Sherlock’s arms, John was in an odd suspended position. He wasn’t standing, more being supported by Sherlock.

 

Sherlock nuzzled his nose into John’s fair hair, inhaling deeply against the soft strands.  It had grown since they had last seen each other. It scared Sherlock how easy it was to support John’s weight. When the duo had lived together Sherlock had remarked on more than one occasion John’s impressive and well-maintained physical build. However, as the man hung limply in the circle of Sherlock’s arms, he felt shrunken and wasted away. There were no hard planes of muscle under Sherlock’s hands. His endearingly rounded face was gaunt, and the skin looked stretched over his skeleton.

 

Sherlock hadn’t noticed the silent tears that were dribbling from his eyes and falling into John’s messy hair. Belatedly he also registered John’s pitiful whimpering sobs.

 

“Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock.” Each whined syllable injured Sherlock, his grip tightening further as the shorter man sagged against him. He sounded broken.

 

“John.” Sherlock croaked with equal pain.

The sobs stopped immediately.

 

Sherlock moved his head from John’s hair to nose down his temple, settling his mouth next to John’s ear.

 

“John.” John jolted into a standing position.

 

Once again, Sherlock roved lower. He nudged and nuzzled his way down the hard line of John’s jaw, stopping for a brief second to press his lips to the small dent in the curve behind John’s jaw. It wasn’t a kiss, but it was intimate and affectionate. Finally, he finished at John’s throat. The short stubble scratched against Sherlock’s cheek. Unaffected, Sherlock turned his head further into his throat, his lips moving against the skin there as he murmured John’s name into his neck.

 

A tremble ran through John. As John was pressed flush against Sherlock he could feel it. Every point of contact between them felt the shiver as if both had experienced it simultaneously. One of Sherlock’s arms that was locked around John’s middle reached across his chest and grabbed his shoulder, forcing John further back into Sherlock’s embrace.

 

“John,” Sherlock whispered. “John look at me.”

 

Sherlock could feel as John’s whole body shook. His breathing quickened and although Sherlock could not see his face, through the sound of his stuttering breaths he knew John was crying. The man went tense, every single muscle in his body was strained and coiled as if he were preparing to run or fight. With the amount of muscle mass he had lost Sherlock reckoned that he would be able to win. The arm pressed against John’s chest moved outward as John’s lungs expanded, taking a deep breath and holding the air there as if he thought it would help him float away.

 

“No.”

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock was shocked at the single syllable. It was hesitant and his voice had wavered on the lonely word. Sherlock lifted his face from John’s neck to stare at the back of his head.

 

“John,” he said with more conviction. “Look at me.” It was more of an order this time.

 

“No.” There was more strength in John’s voice too. He even stood up straighter, straining against Sherlock’s hold and trying once more to walk forward. Sherlock refused to yield and reeled John back to him, pressing him firmly against his chest once more.

 

“John turn around and look at me.” Definitely an order this time. Sherlock almost sounded angry at John’s refusal. The implications of the situation had finally caught up to Sherlock and his outrage at what John had tried to do triggered an emotional whirlwind within the detective that manifested as his anger.

 

“I can’t,” John’s voice cracked on the second word and the sound of it immediately shut off Sherlock’s anger. Taking a deep breath, Sherlock moved his head closer to John’s once more. His mouth settled just behind John’s ear, not touching him but close enough for him to feel the warmth of his breath. Another shiver went through him.

 

“Why?” Sherlock pleaded. The whisper of his words ghosted over the shell of John’s ear. There was a long pause between the two men. For a long moment they just stood intertwined in an intimate embrace on Blackfriars bridge under the midnight sky just listening to each other’s breathing.

 

“Because you’re not there. You can’t be there and if I turn around,” he paused. A quick stuttering inhale signalled that he had began to cry again. When he continued his voice was choked and thick with emotion. “And if I turn around you won’t be there.”

 

A solitary tear drew itself from Sherlock’s eyes and meandered down the sharp lines of his face. “John. John. John. John.” Sherlock murmured, the fear in his friend’s voice had stung Sherlock’s heart. “I am here. I’m sorry I ever left. I won’t leave again I promise. John. John. John.” Sherlock’s arms, without losing any strength from his firm grip, slid over John’s torso until he had a near painful grip on John’s shoulders. When he was certain that John was secured, he slid around the shorter man and came to stand in front of him.

 

Pain struck Sherlock at the expression distorting his dear friend’s face. John’s eyes were screwed painfully tight and his mouth was contorted into a half-open silent cry. Sherlock brought his hands from John’s shoulder, gliding over the flesh of his throat, up to John’s cheeks. It felt so natural for Sherlock to so lovingly frame John’s face. He rubbed his thumbs over John’s cheeks, wiping away the tears as they fell. They stayed like that for a moment. The noises of the mundane world waking up around them played as background music to the two men. Sherlock was acutely aware of his surroundings, as he always is. Out of the corner of his eye he could see people beginning to drive through the area, the occasional pedestrian from a late-night escapade were also beginning to appear. Wanting to avoid a spectacle, Sherlock once again stepped closer to John, pulling him flush against his side. Using his black trench coat, he covered John as well as he could and began dragging him back to the flat.

 

The walk was long and difficult. John barely contributed to it as his legs were stiff and unmoving, Sherlock had at some point slung his arm over his shoulders and began marching him like the wounded soldier he once was. The entire journey John had kept his head bowed so deeply his chin was pressed against his chest. Whether or not his eyes were open, Sherlock was unsure. Sherlock had taken the time to reflect on the situation.

 

He had expected anger. Was prepared for John to lash out and punch him in the face. Or perhaps he would have been happy. Maybe he could have gathered Sherlock up into a crushing embrace as he celebrated his return. That outcome was perhaps a little optimistic, but Sherlock would have happily taken a punch to the face over a suicide attempt. John was not supposed to do that. Never in any of Sherlock’s calculations and risk assessments and possible scenarios would John ever have done that. He was a happy man. A strong man. He was a survivor. He was supposed to grieve and move on a build back a life for himself and then welcome Sherlock back into it when he returned. Not end it all in a desperate, ill-thought out suicide attempt.

 

So lost in thought, Sherlock almost jumped in surprise when they arrived at the door.

 

“Keys John,” Sherlock asked the slumped figure at his side. There was no response. Sherlock half expected to hear snoring. “Keys,” he repeated slightly louder. When he was met with the same silence he decided to scavenge for them himself. He patted his hands down John’s sides, the only acknowledgement of the action was a small flinch from John. Retrieving the keys from John’s trouser pocket, Sherlock eased the door open and as quietly as possible urged his unresponsive former flatmate upstairs. Sherlock had no particular wish to confront Mrs. Hudson just yet.

 

Walking into the flat surprised Sherlock at first. It was in almost exactly the same state as when he had last seen it. His scientific papers and non-hazardous experiments had been preserved and placed in precarious columns standing on the kitchen table. There were pieces of clothing draped over the backs of the sofa and chairs or lying in puddles on the ground after dropping from their positions. The most concerning aspect were the towels and blankets obscuring each and every mirror in sight.

 

 _How bad is this exactly?_ Sherlock thought to himself as he briefly surveyed the familiar apartment.

 

John stood silently in the centre of the room. His head and shoulders were bowed and shaking, and he looked on the verge of collapse. Cautiously, Sherlock approached John. His hands were half extended as he tip-toed forward, as if he were approaching a skittish animal.

 

“John,” he whispered as he reached his friend. Sherlock resumed his earlier position by planting his hands firmly on John’s cheeks and gently tugging his head up to face him. Instead of having his eyes shut as Sherlock had presumed they would be grey-blue met with teary blue-green and it felt as if a jolt of electricity passed through Sherlock.

 

“Sherlock?” The single word released the floodgates for both men. Simultaneously they broke out into loud, wailing sobs, clutching each other as tightly as they could. A fruitless attempt from Sherlock to manoeuvre them to the sofa ended with them both sat on the floor. John was practically in Sherlock’s lap as he was leaned so far into Sherlock. The crooked sitting position that Sherlock had adopted was uncomfortable and his back was strained from bending to clutch at the back of John’s jumper, but he couldn’t find it within himself to care. Instead he simply dug his fingers deeper into the scratchy material and pull it closer toward himself. Again, Sherlock began to make reassuring shushing noises between his own tearful cries in response to the whimpering from over his shoulder.

 

“Sher-Sherlock? How are y-you here. I saw you fall.” John stuttered. Sherlock stroked the back of John’s head, cradling it like a precious artefact.

 

“It was all a ploy. A trick to deceive him into thinking I was dead.” Sherlock cooed.

 

“How?” John choked, extracting himself from Sherlock’s grip to look him in the eye. Sherlock didn’t let him go entirely, instead he slid his hands down John’s back to rest on his thighs as he kneeled on the floor. This time it was John who rested his hands either side of Sherlock’s face, holding him still as he stared into his eyes. Shock and awe and loving amazement shone through John’s gaze. It left Sherlock in a similar awed silence, it was an amplified version of how John would look at him when he uncovered a suspect through the most miniscule details. As always, Sherlock felt the overwhelming need to impress his dearest friend. However, looking at the fond amazed look on his face that Sherlock loved but seeing the underlying grief and sadness, Sherlock couldn’t bring himself to unload more upon him tonight.

 

“It doesn’t matter right now. I’ll tell you about it later,” Sherlock reassured as John made a displeased look, a frown pulling his wearied features downward. Finally, Sherlock allowed himself to fully absorb every detail of his closest companion.

 

Even though John’s hair had always been an almost dusty blonde, it held more grey than blonde and was longer and scruffier than his usual short style. Sherlock felt as if he rather preferred John’s hair a little longer, the thought of being able to run his fingers through the long strands appealed to Sherlock. His face seemed unnaturally pale. Usually John maintained a healthy tan, how he did so in London was a mystery within itself, but now his skin was almost translucent in how pale it was. His veins were clearly seen as a map of blue and green rivers running under his skin. Bags hung under his wearied eyes, they were so deep into his skin they looked like they had been carved into him. His eyes almost looked bruised by the dark circles that coloured his face.

_God, he looks exhausted. He’s lost so much weight,_ Sherlock thought as he took in how much of John was missing. He seemed shrunken and atrophied, his features were taut and drawn in a sickly fashion. Reluctantly, Sherlock dropped his focus from John’s face. Next, he moved his focus to the rest of John. Immediately, his eyes were caught on the red lines streaked across the lower part of John’s grey jumper.  Sherlock jolted straight, ripping himself from John’s grasp. John was pulled from his trance-like admiration of Sherlock to a confused, dazed state.

 

“Sherlock?” he murmured, slow to react to Sherlock’s sudden change in demeanour. Sherlock stared at John, his eyes flickering between the red lines and John’s face.

 

“Why is there blood on your shirt?”

 


	9. Chapter 9

It wasn’t a real question. Because of course Sherlock knew why there was blood on John’s shirt. If Sherlock had felt up to it, he could have said how old the blood was and the brand and thickness of the razor used to spill it. Regardless of how much Sherlock already knew, he was struggling to grasp the truth of the concept.

 

He was met by silence. John’s eyes widened for a fleeting second before half-shutting, his mouth settling into a thin hard line. Sherlock pulled away from John, gripping his shoulders harshly as he held him at arms-length to stare into his eyes.

 

“John,” Sherlock ground out through gritted teeth, “why is there blood on your shirt?”

 

Flinching, John rolled his shoulders and jerked his body backward in an attempt to dislodge his friend’s hands. Anticipating the move, Sherlock swiftly removed his hands when John rolled his shoulder, transferring them instead to capture John’s wrists.

 

“John,” he repeated more softly. He stared imploringly into John’s eyes. “Talk to me.”

A fresh wave of tears welled up in John’s eyes. Almost sheepishly, John ducked his head. The distance between them made Sherlock’s skin itch. They had spent so long so far apart and the hour that they had spent together they had constantly been touching. Over all of the years that the pair had lived together, touching had never been part of their everyday existence. Sherlock always ensured that all touching was measured, planned or entirely avoided. The fragile concept of masculinity had always put a certain amount of distance between John. Touching was always a rarity reserved for dire situations or necessity. Perhaps Sherlock’s mind was clouded and overloading with emotion and confusion, but he had quickly grown fond of the sustained contact he had shared with John. He even felt that he had begun to crave it.

 

Without even loosening his grip on John, he pushed himself up onto his knees, awkwardly shuffling over to John until he was settled in front of him. He waited a moment, staring expectantly at John’s bowed head but no explanation was offered. As his patience wore thin, Sherlock began to extend his hand towards the hem of John’s jumper. John’s fist shot out like a striking cobra, catching Sherlock around the wrist in a vice-like grip. Other than that, John remained in the same position. Sherlock stared at his still bowed head and tried the wrest his hand from John’s grasp. It could not be done. John’s fingers clamped harder around Sherlock’s wrist when he began to move, making his whole hand fully immobile.

 

“John,” Sherlock said gently, almost carefully. “Let me go.” He was greeted by prolonged and tense silence. “John.” His voice firmer to the point where he sounded as if he were reprimanding the ex-army doctor. “Let me go.”

 

“Again?” The voice that responded was bitter and angry. “You planning on leaving again so soon? I would have thought you would wait at least a day before abandoning me again.” His sarcasm was coated with poison, a venomous concoction of hurt, betrayal and angry desperation lacing each syllable. Although Sherlock knew it was a tactic to avert suspicion from himself and redirect the conversation, it was still said earnestly and hurt Sherlock to hear it.

 

Sherlock opened his mouth to respond, John’s name about to slip from his lips but he was beaten to it. “Fine,” John said sharply, letting go of Sherlock’s hand so quickly that he almost threw it back towards him. “Leave.”

 

John stood abruptly, albeit shakily, and began to stalk away from Sherlock. For a split second when he turned his eyes flickered from the door to the hall to the bedrooms as he briefly contemplated which one to go for. Before he even managed a step forward Sherlock was up and trying to grab him from behind, similarly to how he had done so on the bridge.

 

“No!” John cried as Sherlock managed to hook an arm around his waist. For a fraction of a second Sherlock thought he had irritated the cuts and so flinched his arm back slightly. It was all that John needed to easily worm his way out of Sherlock’s grip, making a beeline for the door. Just as she reached it Sherlock came up behind him, slinging one arm across John’s chest and grabbing his arm, he spun him around and pinned him against the door. Before John could even gather his thoughts, Sherlock took a step closer and pressed each elbow to the door on either side of John’s head. He allowed no space for John to escape, his body pressed fully into the shorter man’s front, his face so close he could feel John’s trembling breath on his chin.

 

“John,” Sherlock said in the unique tone of is that was somewhere between gentle and firm. He wanted to say more. To reassure John that he wouldn’t leave, that he wouldn’t leave ever again. He wanted to tell him to stop. He wanted to ask him to talk to him again. He wanted to ask John to lift his jumper, so he could see, because he knew how to deal with what he saw, that way he could asses and analyse and solve. What he settled on was saying John one more time in a slightly lower tone, almost as if he were pleading.

 

“You left.” John whimpered. His lower lip trembled although he tried to still it. Again he refused to look at Sherlock, instead staring resolutely at the upturned collar of Sherlock’s trench coat. “Not only did you leave but you lied. Because it’s fine to lie to John. John doesn’t matter enough for me to be honest with him. He’s not smart enough to understand my great master plans anyway. I don’t even need him so why wouldn’t I leave.” His voice raised as he mimicked Sherlock but lower to almost a whisper on the last sentence.

 

Sherlock wanted to refute what he was saying. Obviously, he didn’t think that. The only reason he hadn’t told John was because it was safer, for the both of them. And, he supposed, it was easier. Did John really believe that? That he didn’t matter? That Sherlock didn’t need him?

 

“John.” Sherlock said almost sympathetically, sad surprise in his voice.

 

“Stop saying that!” John yelled. “Can you say anything other than that?”

 

“I love you.”

 

 


End file.
